Veils of Silk (10 page)

"It's Pyotr's prison journal," the major said. "He wanted you to have it."

She thumbed through the Bible, aching inside at the knowledge that her only uncle had written these words, and now he was dead. "Have you read what he wrote?"

Cameron shook his head. "I learned some spoken Russian from Pyotr, mostly curse words, but I don't read or write the language at all. Can you decipher it?"

She stopped on a middle page and studied the Cyrillic script, which was so small as to be almost illegible. "My Russian is still fluent and I'm familiar with Uncle Pyotr's hand since he wrote me regularly, but this is almost like a code. He seems to have used abbreviations and left out words to save space." Brow furrowed, she slowly translated, "I think this says 'God be thanked, company has arrived. An Englishman, more's the pity, but better than nothing.' " She smiled, then bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he didn't mean it as an insult."

"You needn't apologize for Pyotr. I was equally unenthralled at finding myself sharing quarters with a Russian officer. But in time I realized that I could not have asked for a better companion in adversity."

She sighed. "You knew him far better than I did. To me, Pyotr was a magical figure, not quite real. He would swoop in every few years bearing gifts and telling tales. I remember one story about a great bear that traveled the ice fields of the north searching for the Pole Star. Instead, he found a princess named Lara. The next day, Pyotr was gone again." Remembering, she ran her palm over the gilded leather, wishing she could draw out the essence of her uncle. "Thank you for bringing me this. It helps a little to have something of his."

The Scots burr in Cameron's voice became more pronounced. "I'm sorry he isn't here in person. If he hadn't sacrificed himself, perhaps he would be. Juliet and Ross would not have left Pyotr in prison if they had found him alive instead of me."

Hearing the guilt and regret, Laura said, "But you told me Pyotr was very ill. He always had weak lungs, so he probably would not have survived the extra time in prison."

"There's no way to be sure of that," Ian said tightly. "Neither he nor I were physicians. He might have been strong enough to last another six months."

The pain in the major's voice made Laura feel a fleeting sense of kinship with him. Pyotr and Kenneth might be beyond grief now, but their survivors would be suffering for a long time. "You mustn't blame yourself for living," she said gently. "If you hadn't, I might never have known what happened to my uncle, nor had this to remember him by." It didn't go far enough, but she was too drained to manage more. "I'd better get dressed. As you said, it's going to be a difficult day."

* *
*

For Laura, the hours passed with the distorted, heightened reality of a dream. By the time she had dressed in her one dark gown, the headman of Nanda had arrived. After praising Kenneth's justice and wisdom, the headman offered a burial site on a hill overlooking the small local river. Two "untouchable" women came from the village to help Laura prepare her stepfather's body for burial. She was grateful for the women's sympathy and experienced help, and was unsurprised to learn that they had come at Major Cameron's request. His aid was nothing if not practical.

In a hot climate, burials took place as soon as possible, and all too soon it was time to take Kenneth Stephenson to his final resting spot. His wrapped body was carried on a bamboo bed borne by eight men. In a Hindu family the pallbearers would be close relatives, but these were a mixture of Kenneth's most senior servants and volunteers from the village.

Laura walked behind her stepfather's bier. Major Cameron was beside her, silent but quick to help when her steps faltered. Behind them followed the whole population of the village, the women wailing with grief at the loss of the man who had been not only the face of the British Sirkar, but their friend.

The grave had already been dug and a sturdy wooden cross planted at the head. It was a peaceful place, shaded by a jacaranda tree and cooled by the breeze from the river. In spring, the air would be fragrant with blossoms. Laura watched numbly, her only goal to get through the burial without breaking down in public. This was one occasion when she might have discarded British calm for tempestuous Russian emotion, but over the years control had become second nature to her.

With no clergyman or prepared service, there was an awkward moment of silence after the interment. Smoothly, before the interval grew too long, Major Cameron began to recite in English, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…"

Laura blinked back stinging tears, grateful that Cameron had chosen a psalm that Kenneth had loved rather than the somber burial service.

After ending, "and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever," Cameron added, "By a man's works we shall know him. Though I did not have the privilege of knowing Kenneth Stephenson in life, the love and honor shown today by those he served is the highest tribute a man can receive. May he rest in peace."

The major repeated everything he had said in Urdu, the villagers nodding in approval. After the grave had been filled in, people pressed forward to lay garlands of marigolds on the earthen mound, many of the women openly weeping. As the major had observed, Kenneth Stephenson had been much loved.

But no one would miss him as much as Laura. As she walked stiffly back to camp, she had never felt so alone in her life.

After the funeral, Laura went straight to her tent, for only there could she allow herself to cry. Tears racked her as afternoon faded and night fell. She was shamed by the knowledge that she wept not only for her stepfather, but also from sorrow for the empty life that lay ahead of her. It was unlikely that she would ever again be so close to another person.

Eventually her tears dried from sheer exhaustion. She managed to sleep for a few hours, only to wake again in the still hour before dawn. This time there was no disorientation; she knew exactly where she was and what had happened. Nothing would bring her stepfather back; it was time to face the rest of her life. Getting to her feet, she located by touch the robe and slippers that her maid always left by the bed.

Outside the air was pleasantly cool. The forest never slept, and she paused in the door of her tent to take stock. The scene was rather like the morning before, with the servants sleeping around the larger fire. In the distance a hyena howled.

Much closer was Major Cameron, who sat cleaning a shotgun by the nearer fire. His figure was silhouetted against the light, giving an impression of dark, whipcord power. He was very unlike the civil service administrators Laura knew. Even the other army officers she had met could not match his air of taut, finely honed menace. She should have been wary, yet instead she was drawn to him, and not only because he had been kind to her. Something about the man made her feel safe, even though he was not a safe man.

Hearing her movement, his head came up sharply. Laura held still until he identified her. "Don't you ever sleep,Major?" she asked as she approached the fire and sat in a camp chair.

"Nowhere near enough. But since I'm insomniac anyhow, I might as well make use of it." He fixed a rag in the split end of the cleaning rod. "This gun should have been cleaned after being fired the night before last, but with so much going on, it got overlooked." As he lifted the barrel of the disassembled weapon, he added, "And call me Ian— I'm not a major anymore."

"I thought that military titles followed a man around for the rest of his life." Laura saw that the shotgun was Kenneth's. She was glad the major had thought of it; her stepfather had always been meticulous in caring for equipment.

"The army is behind me," Ian said tersely. "I've no desire to be defined by it for the rest of my life."

Laura must have still been a bit sleepy, or she never would have asked, "Why did you resign?"

He raised his head and gave her a hard glance that made her sorry she had asked, but before she could withdraw the question, he said tersely, "I'd had enough of the army."

Wanting to smooth over the awkward moment, she said, "Thank you for… taking care of so many things. The funeral, the guns, everything. I don't know what I would have done without you."

He began rubbing the pieces of the firing mechanism with an oiled rag. In the ruddy firelight, his face was a dramatic collection of shadows and sharp planes, both fascinating and disquieting. "One way or another, you would have managed."

"I suppose. But you made everything much easier." She gazed into the fire. "Strange how quickly things can change. A day and a half ago I had a life and a family. Now they're both gone. I'll find something to fill in the empty spaces, but I have no idea what. The idea is a bit frightening."

Ian frowned as he held the gun barrel to the fire, peering through it to check for cleanliness. "You've no family at all?"

"Pyotr Andreyovich was the last. I suppose there are some distant cousins in Russia, but none that I remember. My first father was an only child, so there are no near relations on that side. My mother had two older brothers, but one, Sergei, died fighting Napoleon before I was born, and Uncle Pyotr never married. So now there is just me."

"What about Stephenson's family? They may not be blood relations, but you've been one of them for years."

Laura's mouth hardened. "They didn't really approve of his marriage to a wild Russian. My mother was too dramatic and unconventional for them—like a peacock among pigeons. She and I were tolerated for my stepfather's sake, but never welcomed."

Ian began to reassemble the shotgun. "It's hard to imagine having no relatives. I don't see mine very often, but knowing that they exist is a kind of anchor in the world."

"Be grateful they're an anchor, not a millstone."

"I've some of both sorts." He gave a faint smile that softened his features. "Do you have plans for the future, Miss Stephenson? Or haven't you had time to think about that?"

"If I'm to call you Ian, you must call me Laura." She smiled wryly. "I've only known you for a day, but it seems much longer."

"You don't like the name Lara? Pyotr always called you that, and the name suits you. It's unusual."